Silence in Love
by fringeperson
Summary: Some people would think that being one hand down would be a handicap. Mihawk knows perfectly well that Shanks has found ways to work around having only one hand. Very enjoyable ways they are too. Shanks/Mihawk, oneshot, complete, don't own, yaoi lemon.


Two sword-callused hands were held, pinned, above a head of black hair by one likewise sword-callused palm. There was no other hand, so Shanks could only attack the man beneath him with his mouth. Not that it bothered him any. Mihawk tasted like chocolate and fine wine, not things Shanks often admitted to liking, largely because no one ever asked him if he did, but he sure as _hell_ liked the taste of them when he got the hint of them through Mihawk's skin.

He liked the sounds Mihawk made when he grazed his teeth over the other man's exposed pectoral too. It was a sort of shuddering gasp with a hint of bit-off moan at the end. Every sound Shanks managed to get from his lover was always bit off. Mihawk was a quiet lover. He gasped and panted and sometimes held his breath, he bit his lip and his tongue and hardly ever let a true sound properly escape him.

Instructions – things like 'faster', 'harder' and 'there, _right_ there!' – were always communicated in a harsh, hoarse whisper. At least, they were when it was Shanks' turn on top. Instructions given when Mihawk was the one in charge – things like 'hold still', 'behave yourself' and 'come for me' – were generally purred out in a low, tempting, sinful and velvet tone that was completely reserved for those times. It was a full octave lower than Mihawk usually spoke, and Shanks was the only one who ever got to hear it.

Shanks didn't release Mihawk's hands as he slowly worshipped his way down the golden-eyed man's body. He kissed obliques, he scraped his teeth over abdominals, and licked at the edge of Mihawk's navel. Not a sound escaped either of them.

Then Shanks undid Mihawk's trousers with his teeth. First the button, then the zipper, then he nudged them down just a bit with his chin before sliding back up Mihawk's body.

"If I let you go," Shanks said quietly, lowly, a whisper of a murmur that he breathed over Mihawk's ear even as he kissed the shell of it and squeezed his only hand a little tighter around Mihawk's captive wrists, "will you promise to _only_ pull your trousers off? Or am I going to have to do this the slow, _hard_ way?"

Mihawk's hips bucked, quite probably without his consent or even conscious thought, and the man took a deep, rattling breath that brought his bare chest into contact with Shanks' half-covered one, as the red-head and been hovering over his lover with just enough space between them for them to not be touching, but for it to be possible that they could.

Shanks lifted his head from pressing his lips against Mihawk's ear so that he could look into those golden eyes and see the _rest_ of the answer for himself. Mihawk was _very_ quiet when he wasn't in charge. Shanks smirked to see that the look on his Hawk-Eye's face was telling him in no uncertain terms that, given his freedom, Mihawk would rip off Shanks clothes first, and _then_ pull himself out just enough to impale the red-head.

"The hard way it is," Shanks declared softly, ghosting his lips over Mihawk's, but not quite kissing the other man.

Mihawk's coat was already off, spread out beneath them and acting the part of a sheet over the dry grass beneath them, and Shanks' cloak was rolled up and filling the role of pillow. Shanks, however, was still fully dressed by comparison. Mihawk, after all, didn't wear a shirt under his coat. Lying a little way away from them were Mihawk's boots, Shanks' sandles, both of their weapons, and Mihawk's hat.

Shanks would be getting himself undressed, as well as Mihawk's trousers off, without the use of his only remaining hand.

There was a reason it was called the hard way.

There was also a reason it was _not_ called impossible.

Shanks shifted back down Mihawk's body, kissing and nipping and scraping his scratchy little beard as he went, until he was once again face-to-crotch with his lover, and then he went down a little lower and closed his teeth over the seam at the crux of Mihawk's trousers. Then he pulled, wrenching the garment down to Mihawk's thighs and exposing his proud erection to the cool evening air. Shanks picked himself up just enough to go over it before squatting down over Mihawk's midriff, and enjoyed the expression of silent, agonizing pleasure that was displayed on the swordsman's face. Then Shanks put his ten clever toes to work, wiggling Mihawk's trousers further down, down, down, and taking Shanks' body with them until the red-head was scraping over the older man's erection and then had his face so close he could kiss it.

Not that he did. That would be giving in too soon. Mihawk had decided they'd be doing things the hard way tonight, so the _hard_ way it would be done.

Shanks nudged for Mihawk to raise one of his legs, bending it at the knee and planting the foot back into the ground, thus freeing one leg from the trousers complete, and allowing the other leg to kick of the last with a flick of his ankle – something Mihawk did without any nudging or instruction from the man above him.

Shanks' own trousers were much easier to remove though, being much looser than the kind Mihawk preferred, and held up with the red sash he wore about his waist. Shanks caught the bottom of one trouser-leg with the big toe of the other foot, then pulled down firmly. He repeated this with the other leg, then shimmied them the rest of the way off with the help of the leg he'd gotten Mihawk to bring up. Without the trousers, the red sash just fell away, caressing both of them as it slid off. This left only Shanks' shirt still as a barrier between them, however flimsy it was, and however few buttons the man bothered to actually do up.

A much-practised twist, and his shoulder and the stump of his left arm were freed, the bottom of his shirt now gathered under one armpit on one side and under his earlobe on the other. A shrug, and only his remaining arm was still clothed. Of course, all this wriggling was done while he was atop his lover, and the brushing of hot, sweating skin against hot, sweating skin had done absolutely nothing to relieve Mihawk's throbbing need. Or Shanks' for that matter. If anything, it made them all the more painful, and every time they brushed each other it was like sweet lighting had replaced the blood in their veins – but then it rushed through them all over again and as the white cloth of Shanks' shirt gathered around his own wrist where he was still holding tight to Mihawk, they were both gasping in silent, desperate, _pained_ raptures.

Shanks planted his feet between Mihawk's thighs, spread his legs, and pinned his lover to the ground, lowering his weight onto the other man at last.

Mihawk bit down on his bottom lip to keep the wanton groan from escaping him as it had the red-head above him. The heat, the pressure, the almost friction of their lengths being pressed together and held tight between their bodies as Shanks rested all of his weight on Mihawk, pressing their chests together and keeping Mihawk on the ground no matter what. Then Shanks began to kiss and nip his way up Mihawk's neck, along his jaw, over his neatly kept beard, down his cheek and finally, _finally_ claiming the swordsman's lips in a firm, passionate kiss that caused him to forget everything else except for his desire for _this man_ as he kissed back. He didn't even notice when Shanks released his hold so that he could discard the shirt, and then grasped hold of his wrists again. Mihawk was _much_ too preoccupied with this kiss. This kiss where all they wanted was to get as completely inside of the other as they could through that single avenue.

Shanks ground his hips down onto Mihawk's, and his lover threw his head back from their kiss as he arched his back and panted in ecstasy. Shanks grinned and did it again, and got to enjoy the sight of Mihawk's eyes rolling back in his head as his eyelids fluttered, his jaw hung open, and his throat seemed to lock completely.

He didn't need to hear cries and screams from his lover to know that Mihawk loved what was being done to him. He didn't even need pleasured moans, the kind he himself released and knew that Mihawk liked to draw from him when _he_ was in charge, though it was always nice whenever one got past his guard and escaped. No, Mihawk was plenty expressive enough, and Shanks took delight in the fact that he was the _only person in the whole world_ who ever got to see _these_ expressions on Mihawk's face.

"Need... Now..." Mihawk panted out in a strained whisper at last, and the glint in his unique gaze told Shanks that there was _no way_ the red-head would be able to stretch him, prepare him, _and_ hold his hands captive at the same time, and they _both_ knew it.

Shanks just smirked and pressed his lips to that special spot on Mihawk's neck that always drove him completely nuts – knew by the way the man's hips stuttered upwards and then stayed there while Mihawk stopped breathing and seemed to be held up exclusively by his heels and his shoulders. It was a soft spot, a little below and forward of where jawbone bet skull, right where the main artery in the neck was.

While Shanks laved attention that sweet spot that left Mihawk electrified and limp and completely, helplessly, unable to do anything for the amount of pleasure he was feeling, Shanks released his hold and dragged his hand down Mihawk's side in fluttering, tantalising, teasing touches that he _knew_ made the older man burn. Shanks lovingly stroked Mihawk's hip bone, and then slipped his hand down, behind, and up again.

Mihawk managed half a gasp before his breath hitched as Shanks slipped the first finger inside, his blunt nail making his insides burn just as his skin had burned before, and the reason for Shanks taking his time dragging his hand down Mihawk's skin became clear. They'd be using their own sweat to make this a little bit easier this time. It wasn't like either of them carried around anything that they could use, so it was always whatever was at hand. Sometimes it was spit, sometimes it was alcohol, sometimes water, occasionally it was oil, or if they were very lucky it would be soap. Sometimes, like this time, when there would be no pauses made for spitting, and little chance of the pleasure of oral before they'd already gone at least one round, it was sweat or have it dry. Dry sex wasn't fun, so sweat it would be.

Shanks rubbed his whole body against Mihawk's rhythmically, grinding their lengths against each other and making their skin tingle at the friction, never moving his mouth from that sweet spot on Mihawk's neck that would keep him paralysed with pleasure while he slowly added a second and third finger in stretching his lover, massaging his passage and now and then even scraping a calloused fingertip over his prostate.

"Will you be good?" Shanks murmured against Mihawk's skin, not taking his lips from that special spot while his hand was still busy.

"Devilish," Mihawk answered in a shaking whisper that was more indrawn breath through moving lips than speaking.

"Hm," Shanks hummed quietly, knowing full well that the slight vibration through his torso and into Mihawk's would make his lover's nipples positively tingle. "I suppose I can live with that," he allowed, moving his lips away from their place at Mihawks neck, and withdrawing his fingers from the man's anus as well. He smiled to watch Mihawk close his eyes and bite his lip at feeling the loss of his fingers, but Shanks had put them immediately to the task of guiding his length to the space just vacated.

Mihawk opened his eyes again when Shanks pressed his tip to the swordsman's entrance, and rather than waiting for any movement from the red-head, Mihawk grabbed the man's hips and forced him in while rotating his own hips downward.

Neither of them made a sound as their lungs locked up from the feelings that now rippled through each of their bodies, and Shanks threw his arm down by Mihawk's for support. It wouldn't do to collapse _now_ after all.

"Move?" Shanks offered after a few moment.

Mihawk was still panting and inarticulate, but he nodded in vehement agreement.

Bracing himself with his only hand, and rearranging his legs to now be beneath Mihawk's rather than pinning the other man in place, Shanks began to do just that. Shifting slowly out, then in again, getting himself used to the sensation again as much as his lover. It had been _far_ too long for both of them. Mihawk was perfectly capable of finding him at any time, so capable that Shanks had wondered once if it was possible to have an eternal pose set to a person, but the Shichibukai had been frustratingly preoccupied with his duties as a government dog lately, as well as putting up with that would-be greatest swordsman in the world who was Luffy's first mate and the crazy pink-haired chick who had invaded his space.

"Faster," came the rasping command at last, barely a breath in Shanks' ear, but the way Mihawk's hands gripped a little tighter around his hips for a moment communicated the feeling of urgency that was being felt.

Shanks was happy to oblige. Rocking with greater pace, he kissed his way down Mihawk's sternum and back up again until he set his head to rest against Mihawk's collarbone. He nipped and licked and sucked and kissed the skin there, never moving his face, while he brought his only hand down once more to Mihawk's groin. Having only one hand, and having only himself for company more often than not, Shanks had naturally become quite good at what he was about to do.

He smiled into Mihawk's skin as he heard and felt his lover gasp at the way Shanks wrapped his fingers around the swordsman's, ahem, _other_ sword. A firm grip on the upstroke, a looser one on the down, a twist, paying particular attention to stroking the great vein that ran the length of the organ on the next upstroke and caressing the head. Tight on the down stroke and hold firm to the base, reach the extra fingers to stroke and tickle and fondle the sack below, pull gently on them and then a firm upwards pull, repeat – and all at the same time going in and out of his lover's tight grasp.

In, out, in, stop and roll the hips to grind into his prostate and relish in the feel of that hitched breath and the sound of his heartbeat pounding so hard, so fast. Just like his own.

"Harder," Mihawk whispered while Shanks was deep within him, rolling his hips to gently massage the prostate.

Shanks smirked, pulling his hips back just a tiny bit, then slamming into that sweet spot and rolling his hips again.

Mihawk tightened the grip he had on Shank's rear, not letting him retreat too far, forcing short thrusts and insisting that he take them hard. He'd almost forgotten how good sex with Shanks was, and that, right there, all on its own, should be a crime. It had definitely been too long since they'd last had a chance to do this. After all, they really couldn't do this every time they saw each other. There were fights to be had sometimes, and of course images to uphold, but damn it all! Being a Yonko's lover was less than easy for a Shichibukai.

"There," Mihawk gasped, forgetting all the problems that dogged their relationship, really the least of which was that Shanks only had one arm. "Right there," he whispered in bliss, and then Shanks' hand around his pulsing length twisted on the way down _just right_ and all the pent up need of much too much time spent away from his lover spilled out of him, splashing against Shanks' stomach, coating his hand, and dripping down Mihawk's own stomach and sack.

Shanks grit his own teeth as he felt Mihawk's insides ripple around him, felt the release of his lover from inside and out, and when Mihawk's hands pulled him in just a little closer, just a little deeper, Shanks fell over the same edge he'd pushed the other man over just a breath of a moment ago.

Slowly, both of them relaxed into the afterglow that followed on the heels of great sex and a long-awaited orgasm. Shanks rested on the breathing pillow that was his lover, and Mihawk drew his warm, red-headed blanket closer. Neither of them anywhere near ready to part from the other. Neither of them ready to so much as think about standing, let alone cleaning up, getting dressed, and going their separate ways until they could find the time and opportunity to be together again.

No, they'll stay right here, in this clearing, away from prying eyes and enquiring minds, and be just Red-Hair Shanks and Hawk-Eyes Mihawk: lovers. Not captain of the Red-Hair Pirates, not Yonko, not greatest swordsman in the world, and _definitely_ not Shichibukai. Just lovers. Just like they had been since about a year after the first time they met.

"Hey, Mihawk," Shanks called softly, kissing the pale skin of Mihawk's shoulder as he spoke.

"What?" Mihawk answered, just as quietly, though now in a soft murmur, rather than the passion-coarse whisper of not all that long before.

"I love you," Shanks said.

Mihawk could feel the red-head's smile against his skin, and rarely as he smiled himself, Mihawk couldn't help the smile that lifted the corners of his mouth now any more than he could any other time he heard those words from his lover of so many years.

"I love you too," he answered, bending his neck enough to let him kiss that mop of red hair before relaxing back onto his makeshift pillow, wrapping his arms around Shank's waist and making sure he was definitely _not_ going anywhere without Mihawk knowing about it. Not that he _would_, but it was a good excuse for a couple of grown men, on different sides of a political line, to cuddle after sex.

~The End~


End file.
